


More Than You Know

by awakeanddreaming



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Baby, Bonus Chapter, Everyday Moments, F/M, Fluff, Lots of love and Fluff, Love, Marriage Proposal, Olympics, Sweet, Ways To Say I Love You, comeback era, really mostly just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakeanddreaming/pseuds/awakeanddreaming
Summary: New BONUS chapter!Scott knows her. He knows her maybe better than she knows herself. He can crack open her spine, turn over her pages, and read her like the classics she loves so much. He knows her like he is a part of her. They have grown up together and into each other like two trees in a forest sprouted too close. Root systems entangled, trunks and branches knotted and growing into each other until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Battling each other at first on their route skyward, until their root systems are so intertwined they have become one.***Five things Scott knows about Tessa and one thing he doesn't.





	1. A spoonful of honey

**Author's Note:**

> This is just supposed to be cute drabble, because I am having a block on how to finish Not the Time. I have seen a few of these 5+1 and thought I'd try it out. 
> 
> Was going to try this as a one shot but the scene got away from me a bit. Each thing will be it's own short chapter.
> 
> Title from the song More than you know--Axwell and Ingrosso (never heard the song before today but it fits)

 

Scott knows her. He knows her maybe better than she knows herself. He can crack open her spine, turn over her pages, and read her like the classics she loves so much. He knows her like he is a part of her. They have grown up together and into each other like two trees in a forest sprouted too close. Root systems entangled, trunks and branches knotted and growing into each other until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Battling each other at first on their route skyward, until their root systems are so intertwined they have become one.

He knows her. He knows all her little quirks, he knows the curves of her body better than the back of his own hand, he knows her fears, her dreams, he knows how to notice the subtle changes in her expression and what to say when he sees those changes. He may not always understand her and he hasn’t always known what to do with his knowledge of her. It hasn’t always been smooth or easy knowing someone so well. This knowledge and the ability to adapt to it, to understand and communicate was not innate, it was hard earned. It took years of practice, therapy and learning before this seamless transition could take place. To change and adapt to each other’s needs without even realizing took a lot of ground work. A lot of work. Work that they are both very proud of. Now it seems easy. He knows her better than anyone. Knows every little piece of her. And that’s pretty special.

And it is because of this knowledge that despite all the challenges and hurt that when they came back to each other he is able to slip seamlessly into her life.

It is because he knows her that she hardly notices how their relationship begins to change into something more as they grow closer, trunks and roots knotted more tightly together than ever.

It’s because he knows her that he is able to slip past the protective wall she built around her heart. Because he knows a thousand ways to tell her _I love you_ with out uttering the words (even though he does say those quite a lot).

Scott Moir knows everything about Tessa Virtue, well almost. And that’s why she loves him.

 

 

 

**i)**

Scott knows that despite her love for it, and her claims that she can’t get through a morning without it, coffee is rarely her first drink in the mornings—except for on lazy Sundays then it’s _coffee first, always._ That honour is reserved for a mug of hot water with a half a lemon--all seeds, and remnants thereof, carefully removed. Not because she is afraid she might accidentally swallow one but because she finds it gross seeing them float, hard and slimy, along the bottom of the ceramic.

He knows when she is sick or trying to avoid becoming sick she likes a small spoon of raw honey—preferably a local one from the farmers market—mixed in with the fresh squeezed lemon. Sometimes he likes to add a little honey anyways, just to sweeten her day. He knows not to do it often, and she loves it when he does.

He also knows that she will need plenty of coffee later on, but this is how she starts her day. Fresh lemon squeezed into water brought just to the brink of boiling in her stove top kettle. She never waits for it to whistle—if she can help it. Mostly due to impatience.

The lemon is good for your skin, your digestion and hydration and a myriad of other health benefits—or so she read. Which is how she got into the habit a few years ago. For health, and beauty. It’s not coffee, but it’s still refreshing in its own way.  

He knows that some early training days it will be hours before she gets a chance to drink her long anticipated and much desired coffee. Because she can’t stomach food early in the morning and a heavy workout on a stomach empty except for bitter coffee and a swirl of almond milk would churn and make her sick. On those days he passes her her lemon water with quiet promises of lots of coffee as soon as they can and breakfast of eggs, or a yogurt and granola. _As soon as we’re done T, I will get you all the coffee in the world._ He knows she’ll hold him too it.

So, when she shuffles out of her bedroom already clad in her workout gear— black leggings with mesh cut outs, he will tell her later he really doesn’t understand the purpose of those, and a blue and black adidas sports bra that she had laid out last night—she isn’t surprised to see him in her kitchen squeezing lemon into a mug at the stove. Her bedhead is pulled into a messy bun wound tightly on top of her head and her eyes are bleary and still puffy with sleep, but she smiles at him warmly. His presence in her house, him knowing exactly what she needs to get going in the morning, are not new to her even at god knows what time in the morning. Is it really almost six? Because it feels like it might as well be four.

She readily excepts her mug as he extends it to her, she holds it in both hands and inhales. It’s an old mug, one he got her years ago—one with Winnie the Pooh and dozens of cute cartoon bumble bees, a honey pot adorning the handle— and he must have dug deep into the back of her cabinets to find it. She loves it. Loves him.

“I wish this was coffee.” She sighs into the rim of the mug.

“No, you don’t.” He leans forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek.

She hums and takes a sip. “Honey?”

“Thought I’d sweeten up your day.” He winks and casts her a smile too charming and frankly disarming for this early in the morning. She hates how awake he seems. He opens his eyes ready to meet the world head on, while she needs to slowly, groggily and a little unwillingly ease into the day.

“Remind me why we’re doing this?” She takes a step towards him and nuzzles into his chest, relishing in his warmth and familiarity. He’s the only one she is willing to wake up at the crack of dawn for.

“Gold, baby. For the Gold.” He whispers against the top of her head, inhaling the smell of her.

“But we already have one, and I’m tired.” She mumbles into his shirt. He smells like clean laundry and fresh air.

She knows that if she were to take his hand and bring him back to her room he would curl up in bed with her and let her fall back asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around her, no questions. But she won’t ask.  This is too important. But she’s still tired and it’s going to take some time to work back into this part of the routine. She wants this. Wants it with him. But mornings, frankly, are the worst. She is fighting against her circadian rhythm, eventually she will adjust but not today or tomorrow or even the next day.

She takes a step back and keeps sipping the lemon water. She really did need the honey today. A little taste of sweetness to get her ready for the first crack of dawn wake up in a while. She has a few sips left to savour before they go destroy their bodies and beat themselves back into Olympic shape. It will take months, that’s why they are starting early. Suddenly, at twenty-six bearing on twenty-seven she feels too old for this and the Olympics are just over two years away. God, she’s going to need so much coffee.

She looks into her mug longingly, wishing she could use her mind to turn lemon it into caffeine. But knows that would be a mistake. She has agreed to do high intensity circuits at the gym with him today. Just thinking the words _high intensity_ makes her cringe. But he found them a trainer to work with in London when they are here, before they officially announce their comeback and move to Montreal, and really they need to start now.

Scott looks at her and knows exactly what she is thinking. “I promise I will get you coffee, okay? What ever $7 coffee concoction you want from Starbucks. But not until after the gym okay? Gym, coffee, rink. And I packed breakfast too.”

She groans. “Why are we starting now, again?”

“Because T, I got fat. I don’t want to start training in Montreal fat. And you’re perfect, so you’re coming for moral support.”

“I might need two $7 coffees, you know, in exchange for all my moral support.” She offers a small smile, taking another sip of her lemon water. The warmth of it filling her chest and she knows a natural pinkness is returning to her cheeks. The mix of sweet and sour and taste of summer from the lemon are pulling her slowly into the world of the waking.

“Anything you want. I promise.”

“Love you.” She sighs out over her mug.

“You too, kiddo. You too.”

When she is done he takes her mug from her, rinsing it quickly in the sink before putting it on a floral dish towel on her shiny grey granite counter next to a small silver teaspoon that he’d used to stir in the honey. He tightens the lid on the mason jar of honey and opening the the white cabinet doors, careful only to touch the knob— lest he leave smudges on her pristine cabinets—places the jar nearly exactly where he’d found it.

She watches how he effortlessly moves around her kitchen, knowing exactly where she keeps everything. Knowing how she likes to keep things in order. He knows the exact spots where every little item fits and always puts things back where they belong. He never questions her need for order and neatness, he never criticizes her or tells her she is being OCD or controlling. Never tells her she needs to change. Because he knows. He knows she likes to have control over what little things she can. To create order in chaos. He knows she used to try to control other things too, when she felt like everything was too much—like with the pain in her legs. How she used to track every calorie, write down every measurement, obsess over not being _enough_. Good enough, healthy enough, small enough. How she used to need her skate guards just so on the boards for competition or she’d feel a creeping anxiety, like a slow burning in her chest. 

After an hour and a half at the gym, finishing her last rep with the medicine ball, Scott flops down next to her with her water bottle and a protein bar in hand. When she is done he hands her the water, he’s put the other half of the lemon from earlier in it. He opens the bar as she drinks and then holds it out for her to take a bite.

“Ready for coffee? I also packed you yogurt with almonds and granola.”

“You really don’t have to do all this, you know. You get ready, pack me breakfast, come to my house to make me tea and help ease me into the world of the living, and then you drive me here all while I can hardly form coherent sentences."

He looks at her, shrugging while a slow smile creeps all the way to his eyes. He leans towards her and plants a soft kiss on her sweaty temple. And because she knows him too, she knows this is a gesture that says _I want to do all those things_ and _I love you._

He holds out the protein bar for her to take another bite and then bites into it himself. She watches him as he slowly chews the piece of slightly too dry protein bar and bites her bottom lip in thought.

Drawing in a long breath—a count of _one, two, three, four—_ and releasing it with a hiss to the same count she starts, “I was just thinking, it might be easier in Montreal if we lived together—“she stops and considers for a second, trying to get a read on him, “—or at least in the same building. You know, so you don’t have to be up so early to make sure I can get through the morning.” She laughs, trying to mask the seriousness of her statement.

He looks up at her, happiness etched on every one of his features. He knows this is her way of saying _I love you just as much._

“Does this mean…”

“Yeah,” she grins, “I’m ready.” _To be with you._

He kisses her softly on the lips this time, and she sighs into it.

He draws her into an embrace, whispering into her ear, “Are you ready for coffee, too?”


	2. In love with your body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott knows how to make her feel electric, how to make her hum with anticipation or tremble with pleasure, how to calm her racing heart or slow her rapid breathing.  
> He knows these things because he knows her body. He knows it like it is an extension of his own. He would be able to identify her hands by touch alone. By the feel of the near microscopic scars on her long thin fingers caused by skate blades, the wrinkles and creases on her knuckles and the feel of how his own hand slots perfectly into hers—as if a life time holding hands had smoothed and shaped them to form exactly to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little sexier than the last one, but I ended up mostly keeping it light and sweet. 
> 
> Hopefully you all like it as much as the last installment even though it isn’t quite as cutesy. I promise chapter 3 will be dripping with liquid sugar again.

 

 

 

**ii)**

Scott knows, despite her best efforts to keep it together on the ice, exactly how sensitive that little spot where her neck curves to meet her shoulder is. He knows how her body melts into his when he nuzzles right into the crook of it. He knows about the jolt of electricity she feels when he inhales deeply and exhales warm air against soft skin. How her knees buckle when he whispers the softest _I love you_ , his lips brushing against her skin so she can feel more than hear his words. He knows the low hum she makes when she tosses her head back allowing him access to kiss up and down her neck, nibbling softly at the skin below her ear, while he sighs out sweet nothings. It is a favourite spot for them both.

Scott knows how to make her feel electric, how to make her hum with anticipation or tremble with pleasure, how to calm her racing heart or slow her rapid breathing.

He knows these things because he knows her body. He knows it like it is an extension of his own. He would be able to identify her hands by touch alone. By the feel of the near microscopic scars on her long thin fingers caused by skate blades, the wrinkles and creases on her knuckles and the feel of how his own hand slots perfectly into hers—as if a life time holding hands had smoothed and shaped them to form exactly to one another.

Knowing her body so well is a symptom of their sport. Holding hands everyday from such a young age, learning to touch each other in ways that appeared sensual before they even fully understood what that meant. They developed a certain comfort with the others body, leading to a very tactile relationship. And Scott was already very tactile, so touching Tessa, finding purchase for his hands anywhere on her body became like breathing for him.

As Prince rings out, crackly through old speakers somewhere in the distance, he drops her over his shoulder and she slides her back down his front dismounting from their lift. He lets her down more slowly than the choreography dictates, sliding his hand underneath the hem of her loose sweater. Gripping her abs he begins toying his thumb playfully over her belly button ring before setting her back on the ice. Breaking from the dance, he leans in finding that special spot right in the crook of her neck. He breaths in and then out against her skin. His hand is still under her shirt, cold, as he pushes it against her bare stomach.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He sighs out on his next breath. The way he says it is a strange mixed intonation of a tender _I love you, you are my entire world_ and a lustful _I want you right now._

She shivers against him, reaching back to grab his free hand, she squeezes it three times. A soft _I love you too,_ a harder _we aren’t alone,_ and a promise of _later._

“Let’s get back to work, eh?” She gently nudges him with her elbow in an attempt to disengage him from her.

“But my job is to feel you up. I’m getting into character.” He laughs, proud of himself.

“Only a _very small_ part of it,” she sighs, playfully exasperated. “Now let’s be adults and work on rest of our job and do the lift again. No slow-mo on the dismount and less lingering hands. Okay.” She shoots him a pointed look on the _okay_.

He lets her go with a gentle squeeze of her ass as he skates over to the boards, smirking to himself. She can't help but smirk back, giving him a bit of side eye.  _I love you, but you drive me crazy._

 

A little while later, Scott is watching her work out some choreography with Marie-France. They are talking animatedly while revising and rejigging certain sequences. He is grinning at her—watching in relative awe as she contemplates certain movements, rearranging her body to find what works best—like he is the luckiest man in the world.

“I love watching you guys do this creative stuff. You’re brilliant, T.” Pause. “You too Marie.”

She casts him a small humbled smile, “Watch my arm positions for the opening. I wanted to make it a bit sharper. Really hit the notes, emphasize the hip hop aspect. Let me know how it looks, kay?”

She is in the middle of the sequence, talking Marie-France, Patrice and Scott through what she was thinking as she demonstrates. When she hits an extension just a little too hard and a searing pain shoots from the top of her shoulder up through her neck, she stops.

 Her hand automatically shoots up to grab the spot as she cringes, “Fuck.”

Scott is drawn over to her immediately. Her pain, even the idea of her in pain, pulls him to her like some invisible magnet. “Babe, you okay?” 

He has his hands on her shoulders instantly, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs.

“Oh man, that’s pretty tight.” He tenderly squeezes the muscles between her neck and shoulders. She feels the tension release slightly under his hands, but not enough to relieve the pain.

She grumbles, exhaling and relaxing slightly, “I think I overworked my traps a bit at the gym earlier. Then had a bit too much umph to that pop there. It’s alright, just need to stretch it out.”

She moves her head from side to side, stretching her neck, feeling the tense muscles pull and grip all the way down to her shoulder and into her arms. How did she manage that?

Scott leans down, still giving her a light massage, and kisses the crook of her neck—the epicentre of the pain—on each side as she stretches. Pain be damned, she still can't help but love when he kisses her right there.

 

At home in the shower he stands behind her rubbing her shoulders while she stands, breathing deeply, under the spray of water. 

The temperature of the water is hot, leaving her skin red where the steady stream pounds against her chest. But he knows this is how she likes it, as hot as she can handle it. He knows that the warmth will help calm her tense and tired muscles. Even though it is far hotter than he likes, he stands in the water with her, skin against skin, massaging her neck and shoulders. Knowing exactly where his hands need to go and the precise amount of pressure needed. She hums softly and leans into his touch. Feeling tired and sore but absolutely content.

He is entirely focused on her as he slides his hands up her neck up to either side of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair as he holds just behind her ears on either side.

“I’m going to help you stretch, okay? Just relax and tell me when the pull is too much.”

He carefully guides her head to the side, and then tilts her chin ever so slightly forward towards her chest.

“Mmm.” Is all she can muster and he knows it means _stop, right there, that’s the spot._

There is no space between their naked bodies. His hands still hold her head expertly still in the stretch as he leans in and lovingly kisses the place he knows hurts most. The kisses are meant to be soothing, the only thing on his mind is easing her discomfort. This isn’t pretext, there is no expectation of what’s to follow. Without words he is saying _I will do whatever it takes for you not to hurt_ and a thousand _I love yous._ Even without expectations, this is one of their most intimate moments.

Despite her soreness, she melts into him when his lips meet the corner of her shoulder before traveling up her neck. She can’t help that he knows exactly where to linger, breath hot against her skin to make her swoon.

Tessa contemplates how this comfort and constant touching as part of their job could have lead to a kind of numbness to the others hands, but in fact it has always been quite the opposite. Like her senses are heightened to his touch. He knows putting a hand on the back of her neck and offering a comforting squeeze sends a rush of calm through her body. He knows that rubbing his hands along her arms warms her and makes her melt into him. He knows how to make her feel good. And in this moment, she feels very good. She feels loved, she feels relaxed, she feels comforted and she feels warm everywhere.

He draws her head over to the other side, giving equal stretch to her other shoulder. Repeating the stretch a few times on each side, until the hot water has turned tepid. And her muscles are singing in relief.

Drying off she gets out a small roller with oil in it and hands it to him, silently asking him to apply it.

“Japanese mint oil.” She supplies in response to his questioning look. “It has that cooling burn like a535 but it’s natural. That spa I went to a few weeks back used it for the massage.”

He rolls the oil onto her skin, dragging the roller slowly from just under her ear to the end of her shoulder. And again on the other side. 

Going in for another shoulder kiss he recoils immediately, “Shit, that stuff is potent. You are very minty.”

She smiles coyly. “I guess you’ll just have to find somewhere else to kiss.”


	3. flowers for my love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a ridiculously long time to complete. I am not sure why and don't know if I love it as much as the first two. 
> 
> I really wanted to keep all the scenes very domestic and innocuous. No major moments or declarations, nothing that can't be a stand alone moment. But this one is very leading towards the end and I think will directly connect with my next chapter.

**__iii)**

Scott knows, just like everyone else, that she loves flowers. Though unlike most he knows how finding the perfect bouquet brings her back to feeling she had after the first competition they ever won when elated she was handed her very first first place bouquet. He knows how flowers make her think of winning, of sunshine, of running barefoot through grass, of pure unadulterated happiness, of how something so beautiful can start as a tiny innocuous seed and grow and blossom into something beyond description. She thinks this is truly incredible. Flowers make her smile. They make her feel light and happy.

He knows she loves treating herself to flowers. He knows how finding the perfect bouquet lights up her entire face. That on glum days—or happy ones— she likes to take herself to the florist and pick something special just for her. Flowers for her aren’t something that need to come as a romantic gesture, they aren’t just bouquets given for making the podium (in fact she usually gives those away), or for special occasions and especially not as apologies. They are an everyday joy. He knows she likes picking out flowers for herself in the same way she likes shopping for clothes.

She likes how flowers add a pop of life and colour to her otherwise simple and elegant décor. She can change flowers with her moods and with the seasons—unlike paint or furniture.

He knows that as much as she loves flowers—the fresh cut variety—she has absolutely no green thumb and can’t keep a living plant thriving for the life of her. She even managed to kill a cactus once. The only plant she’s ever kept alive was a small potted aloe vera, but apparently those are near impossible to kill—and she gave it to her mom when they moved to Montreal.

He knows pink peonies are her favourite. But they are only in season for a short while. He knows she likes all colours of tulips, and carnations and can’t resist the cheeriness of Gerber daisies—daisies remind her of childhood. And he knows that while she doesn’t dislike roses, they are far from being favourites and she never buys them. If flowers could be pretentious—maybe they can be—roses would be the most ostentatious. There is too much forced symbolism in a rose. And the smell of a bouquet of roses is just too overwhelmingly perfume-y. He never gets them for her either.

He knows that she often spends an absurd amount of money on flowers for around the house. A low bunch in a short round vase for the dining room table, something a bit bigger for the side board, some tulips in an old mason jar on the kitchen island. Sometimes it is just minimalist bouquets of a single type of flower like tulips or peonies or dusky pink carnations, other times she comes home with a big heavy glass vase of various verities of flowers, perfectly matched to each other and expertly arranged.

Sometimes—but not often—he will get her one of those big, beautiful, outrageously expensive arrangements. He will bring it home, grinning ear to ear, proud of himself after having discussed at length with the florist exactly what he knows she likes—even when he can’t remember the names to all the flowers. And she will smile brightly while shaking her head in an exasperated _I love you, but you really didn’t have to._ He knows he never _needs_ to buy her flowers and he doesn’t unless he really wants to. He has so many other ways to say _I love you_ and she finds joy in getting her own flowers. But she never complains on the occasions he can’t resist. Even when he picks something she wouldn’t get for herself, it fills her with warmth to know when he is thinking about her. It is an unsaid, _always._

Though, she is just as happy, if not more so, when he picks a single petunia—while they are walking inconspicuously through the park—and tucks it behind her ear. Or when he comes home from the grocery store with half a dozen yellow tulips—still pressed tightly into little buds, too small and not yet ready to bloom.

She is standing at the kitchen counter when he comes in, thumbing through pictures on her phone and picking at a decadent lemon tart. She picks up an impossibly small piece with her fork before looking up at him. He smiles a little embarrassedly as he holds up the plastic wrapped flowers to her, canvas shopping bag clutched tightly in his other hand.

She raises her eyebrows at him, questioning the small less than perfect flowers with the telltale $8 Provigo sale sticker—he was just supposed to be getting eggs, yogurt, strawberries and spinach. She smirks and half rolls her eyes.  _You're a dork, and I love it._

He shrugs as he hands them over. “I walked passed the flower stand and these were the only ones left…they looked so sad and lonely. I know they aren’t the best looking, they were probably going to get thrown out…but they needed a home, T…and then I thought we don’t have any flowers in the kitchen right now—really I just saw them and thought of you.”   _I’m always thinking about you, I love you._

The words bubble out of him and he looks flushed and sheepish.  She is reminded of the little boy who stole her flowers at a competition, even though she’d be getting them anyways.

She rolls her eyes at him but smiles so brightly it lights up her entire face. _You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? But I love you and I love these ridiculous little flowers._

She takes the flowers from him while he deposits the groceries in the fridge. She fills a jar with cool water, cuts the stems to just the right length so that the buds don’t flop over the top of the jar, and then carefully twists the stems together so that they stay nice and tightly bunched. She loosely ties a string around them before placing them in the water.

They are small but in a few days they should open up and colour the room like sunshine.

He comes up behind her as she finishes arranging them on the island. Pressing his body against hers, wrapping her fully into and embrace he kisses softly behind her ear and nuzzles his nose into her neck.

“I know I don’t need flowers to say I love you. I know picking flowers is your thing. And I know these aren’t the greatest. But I love you. I love you so much…” He trails off planting kisses along the line of her neck.

She reaches her arms up to place her hands over top of his. Leaning into him she rests the back of her head into him.

“In a few days they’ll bloom and if you look you can tell the colour is going to be gorgeous, such a vibrant yellow. Like summer and happiness. Thank you.” She carefully squeezes his arm three times. _I love you. I love them. I’m so happy._

They stand together in silence watching the flowers, as if they might spontaneously blossom right before their eyes. After a few moments of stillness, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her, around her, admiring his choice of flowers, she turns in his arms to face him.

“I never need you to get me anything, you know? Just this, just you.” _This is enough. You are enough. Our love is enough._ “But anything—everything— you give me, I will love, always.” _Because it’s from you._

A few days later the tulips open while they are out at the Jean Talon market. She is carrying the canvas shopping bag, already loaded down with some local honey and jam—preserved from the summer—some carrots and bell peppers, a fresh baguette, and smoked pork sausages. They are done with their shopping but take a little more time to explore the market and surrounding shops while slowly sipping their coffees, hers is something deliciously vanilla, He picked it out knowing she’d love it. He was, as usual, right.

 It is a sleepy Sunday and they really have nothing else to be doing. They meander slowly, comfortable in each others space, arms lightly brushing as their strides fall in synch. They ease into their silent communication, a gentle pressure on her arm lets her know Scott wants to stop at a cheese booth. He picks up two sample tooth picks of smoked applewood gouda. Feeding her one while popping the other in his own mouth before nodding in thanks at the stall attendant and continuing. She raises her eyebrows in silent disbelief at a table of gaudy brightly coloured alpaca wool sweaters—he laughs. She eyes a glass case filled with chocolates and fudge, he tugs her gently along with knowing smile. _Next time, I promise._ They have early training tomorrow and a competition next week. She pouts.

She loves the olde town feel of the market, like it is it’s own little community within the city. She wishes she could stretch this day out forever, he nods in understanding.

Pushing her body into his, she guides him to a small flower stall tucked away in a quiet corner of the market. He smiles indulgently, _of course._

The variety isn’t huge this time of year. There are tulips—much nicer than the ones he picked—but she passes those by. She stops at some red and orange chrysanthemums—deliberating.

He smiles and nods, _those look perfect._ “Very fall.”

“The red mums represent love,” the woman on the other side of the stall says in a sing song voice, beaming at them.

“Oh, that’s nice, I guess. I’ve never really taken stock in the meanings of flowers, honestly.” Tessa forces a smile at the woman—half genuine—but looks happier at her flower choice and a small blush creeps up her neck.

The woman—with tawny hair, larger than necessary bifocals, and a denim dress that is probably older than both Tessa or Scott—starts gathering the chrysanthemums into a bouquet. Allowing Tessa to pick the best ones. Before she ties the bouquet together the woman reaches over to a different bucket containing sprigs of little yellow flowers. She places a few amongst the mums and it really looks lovely—a floral embodiment of autumn.

“It’s yarrow.” The florist offers. “They are for everlasting love. I call them forever flowers.” She hums.

Scott smiles at her as he pulls a twenty and five from his wallet to pay for the flowers. The slick plastic sliding in his grip and he nearly drops the blue five.

“Forever…” He mulls over—looking uncharacteristically unreadable for a moment—before letting out a breath ending in a disarming smile. “Perfect. Thank you.”  

Tessa takes the arrangement and places it carefully in the canvas bag, sticking out next to the baguette. She looks at him, her eyes light, her face open—questioning. _Forever?_

“Yeah.” _Of course._ He answers her unspoken question in a whisper against her ear. His palm rests lightly on her lower back guiding her out of the market.

As they walk, she turns over words in her mouth, their taste sweet but their meaning like heavy, much like the implication of _forever_ _._ Before she can stop herself, she heaves in a breath—with her usual calming count of _one, two, three, four_ and exhales softly to the same. “You know I already told you, you don’t need flowers to tell me you love me. You especially don't need the silly meaning attributed to them to promise me forever, right?” She stops and looks at him, eyes clear and reflective. She needs him to understand her next words and speaks carefully, deliberately. “You don’t need to get me _anything_ for a forever. Just say the words.” _Just ask me, I’m yours. I’m ready._

In an uncharacteristic public display of affection, he plants a light kiss on the corner of her mouth, prompting her to suck in a sharp breath, and clasps her hand in his. He speaks softly, just for her, “I know.” _Soon._

They walk back home, hand in hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren’t Canadian, our money is ridiculous. It is plastic and colourful and has things like hockey scenes on it. 
> 
> Also, I hope you see where this is going, and though I had to force the direction of the scene a bit using the florist I hope it is still sweet and light.


	4. I think I wanna marry you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Was that a question?” She smiles a bit brighter, a small giggle vibrates through her chest. “It didn’t sound like a question.”  
> The hand not on her chest creeps slowly around her waist, fingers gently running over the skin in a way he knows will make her squirm. And she does. Her body contorts under him, and her face scrunches up in an attempt to suppress full body laughter. He pushes on, finding and squeezing the exact right spot, tickling her side until she is writhing and laughing uncontrollably—making meek attempts to push him away.  
> “That didn’t sound like an answer.” He presses, bemused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and light and fluffy. So light and fluffy it is like whipped cream with a sweet maraschino cherry on top. 
> 
> Also, because of yesterday's interviews I had Tessa use Kiddo, but only because it fits.

**iv)**

 

Scott knows how much she loves to laugh. How she loves the feeling of an uncontrollable giggle reverberating through her chest. Laughing makes her feel light and free. He knows when her loud all consuming, too big for her laugh—the one he loves so much, that has always been one of his favourite things—rolls over her that for just that briefest moment all her worries disappear under the cloak of giddiness. She loves how he makes her laugh—how he’s made her laugh nearly everyday for coming up on twenty years. He knows she loves how much he loves making her laugh.

 She has lots of laughs and he knows them all intimately. An all consuming too big for her laugh, fits of giggles that shake her until her stomach hurts, a stifled laugh that comes out in a snort when she just can’t hold it in any longer, a breathy laugh that actually comes out as huffs of air that mimic a ha ha ha, a laugh so hard no sound comes out leaving her breathless, a smirk and crinkled nose when she finds something mildly amusing—or is trying not to laugh out loud—, a stilted awkward laugh when she finds something uncomfortable and her adorably girlish giggle. He knows how to elicit all these laughs. She in return loves making him laugh. She loves making people laugh, but him especially. He knows she finds it a point of pride when she can have him keeling over in laughter.

He knows that she is actually hilarious. Really truly funny. Sure he is the jokester, the one to lighten the mood with a joke, the one to use comedy as a front, who tries to make light of situations with a quip. But she is an expert at whit and given enough time to think can land pretty solid jokes. But she often needs that time to think of a good comeback or struggles with the delivery when pulling out the stops, so often her humour is saved for him—and for family. But she is funny, he knows it and though he loves when she shares that, when everyone can see what he does, he also likes having that little bit of her to himself. She likes that too. The laughs that are just shared between the two of them—like a secret.

He knows she loves when he whispers jokes in her ear on the ice during practice, smirking against the soft skin along her hairline. How she acts exasperated at his goofball antics, even though it is one of her favourite things about him. She loves that he is the silly to her serious. Because he can also be serious to her silly—though less frequently. He knows that she sometimes needs his ridiculousness, that she appreciates how he brings out that childlike joy in her. She can sink into laughter and be completely relaxed.

He also knows that she likes and needs quiet and privacy and space to decompress. That she needs time to be serious and contemplative. That after a day of talking and laughing and being around people she _needs_ to be alone—sometimes alone with him—to gather her bearings. Whether they are in a hotel or at home she likes to take a favourite book into the bath with her, and read by the flicker of a scented candle, soaking in lavender and Epsom salts.

To be the bright shiny star that she is, she needs time to recharge. To breath. In and out— _one, two, three, four._ Meditate. Reflect. Quiet. Calm.

He knows that despite starting to share more of herself with the wider world by being more openly funny and open in general there are still things, parts of herself, and her life—their life—that she needs to remain private and protected.

Her favourite moments—the memories she treasures most—are all within those private moments. Inside jokes, and laughs shared just between the two of them. Moments of quiet intimacy or companionable silences—where meaning is conveyed through look or touch rather than word. Those are her perfect moments. Ones away from the performative, from the public, where she is entirely free to be herself. To laugh as loud as she wants, or sit quiet comfort.

The morning is still and quiet, the morning sun streaks through the curtains basking the room in a hazy glow. They could be at hotel or at home it wouldn’t matter it is just them—alone together—in their bubble.

“I was thinking,” he starts, “since I am growing my hair out…may as well try to grow it all out too. Like the facial hair too, eh?”

She snorts, running her hand through his hair and then over his smooth cheek. “You mean all eight facial hairs?”

“There are more than eight. I’d say at least fifteen, maybe even twenty. If you counted them.” They laugh in unison.

“Is this so the ladies at the liquor store don’t card you again, kiddo?” She says between rolling chuckles. She uses his affectionate name for her—the one that he has been using forever, because babe, baby and sweetie are generally saved for home and relatively new. She likes to use it on him sometimes, because it is her favourite and she likes to let him know that. When she uses it, it means _I’m yours and you are mine, kiddo._

“That was one LCBO, one time. I’m not getting that pink thing for you ever again. The guys at the beer store never do me like that.” He huffs playfully, kissing her cheeks. He gently brushes a hair of her face, a reminder he is joking. _I will always get you whatever pink drink you want._

“It was a Rose Moscato.” She says flatly, though sporting a coy smirk.

He kisses her, quick and soft at first—effectively wiping the smirk off her face. Then deep and full of love and passion. A kiss that says _I love you more than words._

They lapse into and easy silence. Still breaking into spontaneous giggles, but mostly breathing each other in. Relishing in a rare quiet moment together. Laughing at nothing. They are deep in the throws of their competitive season now, and though they are both loving it. Loving the process, the pressure and the winning, there have been very few moments lately to just take each other in. So they do just that. Joking like they love, talking without talking, and breathing together in perfect sync. Until they fall into each other, entirely in unity.

The moment is perfect. A comfortable, quiet, intimacy that followed laughter and smiles. Perfect—even though she normally hates the term perfection. He knows, and she knows that this is perfect. This is a moment. So, she knows what is coming before he speaks. She closes her eyes and waits.

 

“Marry me.” He says breathlessly, his tone edging closer to a statement than a question.

His chin is resting on her bare chest and he is looking up at her while absentmindedly tracing patterns in the freckles between her collar bone and the top of her breast.

Her eyes are still closed, humming in contentment at his soft touch. Her breath soft, even and satisfied. He stops his wandering hand waiting for her response.

Her mouth moves to form a half grin and she opens one eye to look at him in mock suspicion. _Don’t stop._

He picks up his pattern tracing again but looks at her still waiting. Wiggling his eyebrows in that way that is so typically him. _Don’t leave me hanging._  

“Was that a question?” She smiles a bit brighter, a small giggle vibrates through her chest. “It didn’t sound like a question.”

The hand not on her chest creeps slowly around her waist, fingers gently running over the skin in a way he knows will make her squirm. And she does. Her body contorts under him, and her face scrunches up in an attempt to suppress full body laughter. He pushes on, finding and squeezing the exact right spot, tickling her side until she is writhing and laughing uncontrollably—making meek attempts to push him away.

“That didn’t sound like an answer.” He presses, bemused.

She bites down on her lip to stop her fit of giggles then raises an eyebrow at him. _No question, no answer._

He shifts himself to be directly over top of her, elbows resting on the pillow on either side of her head. He kisses her once on the nose. _You’re so stubborn._ Once on the forehead. _But I love you._ Once on the lips. _So much._

She looks at him, expectantly. She is relaxed and open and doing nothing to contain the look of pure happiness and excitement in her expression. She is filled with an indescribable warmth, starting in her chest and spreading deliciously through her entire body. She breathes in deep and exhales joy. _Ask me, I’ll say yes._

“Tess. T. Kiddo. Baby.” He punctuates each name with a kiss. “Will you marry me?” Pause. “Please?”

“Because you asked so nicely…I guess...I could...” She can’t help her smirk. He lowers himself over her, nudging his nose against hers. _Please._

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course.” A laugh rolls through her, starting in her belly and working up through her chest and out, ending with a snort as she wraps her legs and arms around him. Pulling him into her, as close as she can get him. They melt into each other, again. She kisses him and laughs and cries.


	5. love letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just pure sap. This is the epitome of Scott 'Rom-Com' Moir. T gets a bit sappy too. 
> 
> I don't know how this got so sappy, and so so long (this chapter is much longer than the rest)
> 
> Really, I just tapped a maple tree and let it slowly trickle out on to the page. So much sap. 
> 
> We also make a brief appearance at the Olympics. Please enjoy some really, really sappy declarations of love, with a side of Olympic gold medal.

**v)**

Scott knows her affinity for words—both written and spoken. He knows how vast her vocabulary is, how she absorbs every word she hears and stores their meaning to the vault of her memory—he sometimes doesn’t realize there really are that many words in the English Language. He knows that she is a veracious reader and will always choose a book over TV—except when they are deep in the throws of training and there isn’t enough room in her head or time in the day to properly sit down and read.

He knows she is an obsessive note taker and keeps a mole skin journal with her, always. A place to scrawl her ideas or put words to her emotions. She loves going to Chapters or specialty stationary shops when they pass them and looking at all the journals, picking the perfect one.

He knows that despite how much she loves and appreciates his physical affection—and how she knows in return that physical touch is the best way to show him her love—that she needs to hear the words. She needs the soft spoken _I love yous_ and _I am proud of yous_ and _you are brilliant and beautifuls._ She needs to hear the positive affirmations to know they are true. After so many years of self doubt, of being told—and thinking—she wasn’t enough she still needs to be reminded that she is. So, he tells her in no uncertain terms _you are more than enough._ He whispers it in her ear at the rink, he sighs out the words when they are laying spent in bed, he says it in interviews when he reminds the world just how proud he is of her, he tells anyone who will listen just how loved and enough she is. He builds her up with his words constantly. And still somehow, hearing him say the words makes her heart flutter, every time.

He also knows that she also loves having those words written down. So she can read them and cache them away in her visual memory. She likes to have a permanent, inked, reminder of his love. Something tangible that she can store in a little wooden box—one that she hand painted with delicate pink flowers as a teenager—tucked away in her closet. He knows she likes to trace the shape of the letters and the words they form with fingers as if they were brail—memorizing the loops and curves of his messy hand writing.  

He knows the smile that spreads all the way to her eyes when he leaves a post-it on the bathroom mirror with a hastily scrawled _Good morning, beautiful._ Or the sound of her squeal and tears of happiness after he painstakingly unwrapped and opened a Kinder Surprise—without tearing or breaking the chocolate—replaced the toy with a tiny note that read _until the end of time_ and resealed the entire thing and gifted it to her after a particularly difficult day at the rink.

He knows she loves both giving and receiving cards, always filled with heartfelt sentiment. She collects blank cards from all over the world and saves them for the perfect occasion and recipient.

He knows how happy she gets when she opens the mail box to find more than just bills and junk. That she is positively aglow at the prospect of Christmas cards through the whole month of December. She practically races to the mail box to find out if any came that day. She reads them—makes note of her favourites and mentally catalogues where they were from—before placing them neatly on the mantle for the remainder of the season.

The apartment is chilly and she shuffles around in an old, worn pair of navy UGG boots. She can’t even remember when she bought them, years ago when everyone had to have them—she can’t really say they were ever a peak of fashion, but they sure are comfy. The soles are wearing thin and the suede is scuffed, but they are perfectly formed to her feet, still soft on the inside and perfectly cozy on cool winter days in the house. She draws her loose knit sweater tightly around her body as she makes a mental check list of everything they have left to do before they leave.

He comes up behind her, wrapping his body around hers in a warm embrace. Helping her pull her sweater more tightly around her abdomen. She sighs into him and he rests his chin on her shoulder.

“We still have a few days before we leave, no need to throw out the whole fridge yet, eh?”

She leans her head into his, “I know, I just feel like I need to do something to keep busy.” Pause, an unspoken _I am driving myself crazy._ “This is it. We are going to the Olympics. We are going to the fucking Olympics.”

He grins. “I know, love. We are going to the Olympics, together.”

She hums and leans further back, into him, training her breathing to his. She is trying to still her mind and calm to ball of nervous energy that has taken up residence in her chest. Breath. _In, out, in, out. Together. Always._

“Babe,” he says low in her ear, “you should go check the mail…make sure there aren’t any bills we need to take care of before we go.”

“Everything is paid up already and it’s all online anyways. You know that.”

He sighs, slightly exasperated by her practicality. “T, babe, would you just go check the mail. For me? Please.”

She turns in his arms, looking at him incredulously, eyebrows knitted together—trying to figure him out. _What are you playing at, Moir?_

“I will put on some coffee, just go get the mail?” He grins, his devilishly charming grin, the one that never fails to strip her bear and break down all her walls. And then raises his eyebrows at her, letting her know there is something he knows that she doesn’t.

“Fine.” She huffs, with unconvincing exasperation. _You win, but I’m on to you._ She stays in his arms just a little longer—relishing in his warmth— before shuffling towards the door, out into the hall, and down to their mail box.

She returns several minutes later, a white card clutched tightly to her chest, it’s envelope which had been hastily torn off, falls to the floor. She is trying to control her breathing, her lips tight in an attempt to hold back tears. But she is smiling—bright and airy. He knows she read it already.

“Thank you.” Is all she can manage, barely above a whisper. She breaths in deep, gaze trained on him. And there are a hundred unsaid _I love yous_ floating in her eyes. She doesn’t know where to start, what to say. But he knows what she is thinking and he doesn’t need her words. He is there right there, touching her. Hands running up and down her arms, cupping her face.

She looks at him like she does sometimes on the ice, in those few raw moments at the end of a performance—like they are the only two people in the world. And he looks at her the same, like she is his entire life.

“T, I love you. I love you so much. Being here with you, skating with you, has made me the luckiest man alive. I want to win the Olympics with you…again.” He pauses for a breath, kissing the tip of her nose and each of her cheeks. “And then I want to spend every day after that loving you. I want to marry you, and I wanted you to have that on paper. So, I wrote it down. So…you know you could have that as a reminder at the Olympics…Dammit Tess, I really want to marry you.”

She is nodding furiously, breath catching in her chest while she tries to regain her speech. She finds her words faster than she expects. “I know. I know you do. I want to marry you too. Though, I feel like we’ve had this conversation before, more than once actually. Every time I say yes. Every time I will say yes. Always. A thousand times, _yes_.”

He raises his eyebrows and half smirks, silently asking _did you just quote Pride and Prejudice at me?_

She nods and a laugh shakes through her, slipping out like an awkward half grunt half chuckle. “Oh god, you aren’t going to ask a thousand times now, are you?” She smiles, reaching up to put her hand on his  where it is on her cheek, _I wouldn’t hate it if you did._

“I really like hearing you say yes.” His voice is soft and low and his smile is unmistakably that of a man who is extremely happy.

Their foreheads press together, and they fall into a moment of quiet togetherness. His hands slip from her cheeks to the spot where her neck meets her shoulders and he runs gentle circles over her pulse with his thumbs. They breath in perfect synchronicity, saying a simultaneous, _this is it, you and me kiddo. I love you._

She is still clutching the card, holding it tightly over the left side of her chest—as if she could imprint the words written in ink onto her heart like a tattoo.

They stand in the kitchen of their shared apartment—the first symbol of their shared life—heads pressed together letting everything about them that is beyond words pass between them. Because the words have all been said, been written down. She can store them away in her memory. She loves him for that.

They are stretching this moment out as long as they can, because the Olympics will be hard. Because—for now—this all encompassing beyond definition love they share lives here only between them in their home and on the ice between the characters they portray.

Scott finally breaks the silence, stepping away from her and looking into her eyes as if he can see in to  her soul. Reading her like the books she loves. Maybe he can, because he knows her better than he knows himself.

“Kiddo, I just want you to be my wife.”

“I want to be your wife too,” she smiles bashfully at saying the words out loud, “but first we are going to win the Olympics.”

“And if we don’t win?”

She pauses for a moment, “I will still be your wife. No matter what. But we will win. As long as we have our moment, right? Our seven minutes. This is about us, about the feeling, about the process. We made it here, so no matter what we win, eh?” It’s what they’ve been saying since the start and she is reminding herself as much as she is him.

 

She is Satine, dying in his arms, as the last notes of Come What May fade out over Olympic ice. He barely waits for the last note before pulling her up into him. An embrace so tight, so full of emotions he might actually be trying to join their bodies together. He holds her close at first to come back into himself. He is coming out of character, breaking from being Christian. Holding her as close as he can in order to feel her breathing against him—knowing she is Tess and she is still here with him, _always._ Then he pushes away to look at her and elation hits. They know they did it. He lifts her back up in his arms, his body crashing against hers. _We did it, we won, I love you._

“I love you.” He whispers into the skin of her neck.

“So much.” She replies.

In the Kiss and Cry she is back in his arms. He is telling her it is over, they did it, he loves her, he is proud of her. This is it. She thinks of the card, tucked safely in her skate bag. The thick white cardstock with a water colour image of dancers on the front. The woman’s head is thrown back, her back arched—clad in a flowing red dress—in the arms of a man in black. She has no idea where he found it, or if he had it made. But it is almost as perfect as the words penned inside:

 

_T,_

_You’ve made me into the man I am today._

_I wouldn’t be here without you._

_I am so proud and honoured to have gone on_

_this twenty-year journey with you._

_I love you, so so much. I want to spend the rest of_

_my life with you. I want to start a family with you._

_I want to marry you._

_Marry me, kiddo?_

 

_S_

She is riding on the high of their win feeling drunk on excitement and on her love for the man holding her tight in his arms. They won. They won the Olympics, and they love each other. She knows you shouldn’t make major declarations after a moment like this—not when she is running on endorphins—but she doesn’t care. She breaths in and out to her count of four and knows she means her words. He will know she means them too.

She buries her face into his neck, puts her arm up to cover her mouth and speaks softly, carefully, just to him, just for him. 

“I want to marry you. I want everything with you. I want to have a family with you. I want to have a baby.” It all comes out in one low breath against his neck.

He pulls back, his excitement palpable. “What? Really?” His smile could light the arena. She nods. He knows she means it. Every carefully chosen word. Maybe not right now, but she means what she says, _always._ He pulls her back in and never wants to let her go.  

They hold on to each other just a bit longer, neither wanting to end the moment. And they both know _this is it. This is a beginning. A new journey._

 

_Until the end of time._


	6. what's that, baby?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have something to tell you.” She smiles against his back so he can feel it against his skin.  
> He turns in her arms, keeping her close. Once he is facing her, his arms wrap around her and his head tucks into her neck.  
> “What’s that, baby?” He whispers low into the crook of her neck—sending shivers down her spine. She grins at his word choice, because he doesn’t know.
> 
> Something Tessa knows that Scott doesn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end folk. I hope you have enjoyed all the fluff and sap. 
> 
> This chapter is short and sweet and caps off this series on a very happy note.

_+1_

Tessa prides herself on her logic and rationality. On her ability to be even keeled and appear calm in stressful situations, despite actually being quite a sensitive person who feels a lot of things very profoundly. She thinks things through—usually— before acting on her emotions. She likes to have proof and go into things having all possible information. She is a thinker—often an over thinker—rather than a feeler. But this is different. This is something that she just knows, somewhere deep in her soul she just knows.

She knows before there really is even a reason to suspect anything. It doesn’t make sense, she has no proof, no evidence, no reason to believe. It just feels like a truth. It is like a piece of trivia that you are so sure about knowing even though you can’t quite remember why you know it but you are so positive in your conviction nothing can sway you. That knowledge is just buried somewhere deep inside. It is a feeling that comes from within her—in her soul or her heart maybe. She just knows and there really isn’t any other explanation. She woke yesterday morning and knew.  

She tries to rationalize that she is an elite athlete, therefore knowing her body and subconsciously recognizing some small change is the logical answer. But that really isn’t it either. It feels like a deeper knowing than that. Besides nothing has changed, physically she feels no different. She isn’t even late. They weren’t even trying. She has no reason to really suspect, yet she knows. Something is different, yet nothing has changed.  _Yet._

She is wearing a white baseball cap, and dark sunglasses, hoping they will be enough to obscure her identity as she walks through the isles of the pharmacy—a woman on a mission. Just because she knows—is absolutely certain—all the way to her core doesn’t mean she doesn’t want proof.

She is in the _Family Planning_ isle studying the boxes ironically located directly next to the condoms and lube, and across from the pads and tampons, and a half isle over from the diapers. She holds back a giggle at the absurdity of it, trying to focus on what’s in front of her. She reads every box as if picking a test were some kind of test in and of itself. Really, they should all work the same, so she is tempted to reach for the store brand box—how could a stick meant to be peed on and thrown in the trash be worth $13. But instead she reaches for the one that says, “Know Five Days Sooner”. It is $15 for two tests. Double proof.

The second line appears immediately. It is faint—she almost has to squint to be sure at first—but it is there. After a few minutes it darkens, though only slightly. Two thin pink lines, one is much lighter than the other, but the result is unmistakable. There is a flutter in her chest—like her heart is skipping beats. She knew, but now she is sure.

Scott doesn’t know when he gets home and wraps her in a warm hug, kissing her temple. He doesn’t know when he starts on dinner and she declines his offer to pour her a glass of wine. He doesn’t know when they are sitting across from each other at the kitchen island eating grilled chicken and salad. He doesn’t know when they are sitting on opposite ends of the couch—computers on their laps—each answering emails and tying up loose ends with the tour. He doesn’t know when they head upstairs to get ready for bed.

He doesn’t know when she comes quietly into the bedroom from the ensuite, after washing her face and brushing her teeth. Or when she pads up behind him, bringing her body close to his and running her fingers across his bare chest, pressing the side of her head against his shoulder blade.

“Hey.” She says, softly into the skin of his back.

“Hey.” He responds, laying his hands over hers where they rest over his heart.

“I have something to tell you.” She smiles against his back so he can feel it against his skin.

He turns in her arms, keeping her close. Once he is facing her, his arms wrap around her and his head tucks into her neck.

“What’s that, baby?” He whispers low into the crook of her neck—sending shivers down her spine. She grins at his word choice, because he doesn’t know.

She is quiet as she takes a step away from him. So that she can look at him. She runs her hands down his arms, finding his hands and drawing them gently in front of her. _Let me show you._

Though she isn’t anxious, she knows how important—how big---this moment is, so she breaths in deep on her count. _One, two, three, four._ And exhales slowly, before bringing his hands to rest low on her abdomen, in the cradle of her pelvis. She brings her eyes to meet his, blinking back tears while smiling at him in admiration.

“Baby?” It’s not what he means, it is still his term of endearment. But he will get it.

She pushes gently on his hands, holding them tighter to her stomach and nods. _Yes. Baby._

His eyes flit between hers and where their hands are clasped—absorbing the information he is being given. He rubs his hands carefully over her stomach before looking back to her face. His eyes are questioning, but hopeful. _Are you sure there is a baby in there?_

“I’m very sure.” She answers his unasked question with unwavering confidence. She moves her hands from his in order to cup his face.  She kisses him. Deeply—full of love and meaning. _We made a baby._

Breaking the kiss, he stands back to look at her--to admire her—before dropping to his knees in front of her. He lifts the hem of her t-shirt and presses his lips with tenderness to the bare skin above her waistband. She runs her hands through his hair, smiling down at him.

“Hi baby.” He whispers, his lips and breath hot on her skin.

 

 **Fi** **n**

 


	7. BONUS CHAPTER-- you're always right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BONUS CHAPTER--20 week ultrasound
> 
> “Yeah?” He says, resting his chin on her shoulder.  
> She leans gently into his embrace and nods. “Just a feeling.”  
> He smiles against her shoulder and ghosts his lips over that special spot between her neck and shoulder. “I trust you, you’re almost always right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to add a Bonus chapter. It is super short and sweet but some many were loving the vm baby vibes. And I needed a little fluff after a very stressful day yesterday (apparently my neighbor kidnapped a teenager and my house was surrounded by police all day) so I wrote something fluffy to relax. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little bonus chapter!

_BONUS_

They are traveling into the unknown together. They don’t know what to expect with each passing month. They don’t know how long Tessa will be able to keep skating—because she is stubborn and determined to be on the ice and doing photoshoots and anything else she can until it is determined she absolutely can’t. They don’t know how long they are going to be able to keep it a secret as the swell of her belly slowly begins to grow and they still have to finish a tour and have public engagements booked through the winter. They don’t know how they are going to deal with it when they can no longer hide her changing body under loose shirts and flowing dresses.

 

They don’t know what stroller to buy. Or what car seat—should they get a bucket seat or go straight for an extended rear facing seat? A fabric wrap or a Tula or both for baby wearing? They don’t know how to be parents—yet. They don’t know what to expect. 

So instead they focus on what they do know. They know that the smell of raw meat turns Tessa’s stomach, and they learned at a barbeque that the fatty juices in hamburgers and sausages do so much more than that.  But the baby loves chocolate and chicken wings--though not together. They know that the baby loves to push on her bladder.  

They know that the first time she felt the tiny flutters of movement inside her was when he was resting his hands over her barely there bump— talking in hushed tones about the future. They know that though he can't feel them yet, their baby loves to move when he has his hands pressed on her belly and talks--about anything. And he loves knowing that.

They know that no matter what they are both already head over heels in love already.

 

“I think it’s a girl,” she hums over her tea, looking wistfully out the kitchen window while he wraps her up in his arms from behind.

“Yeah?” He says, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She leans gently into his embrace and nods. “Just a feeling.”

He smiles against her shoulder and ghosts his lips over that special spot between her neck and shoulder. “I trust you, you’re _almost_ always right.” 

She takes a sip of her tea, breathing in the aroma of sweet earl grey with just a hint of vanilla. She snuggles further into him and his arms slip around her stomach. _This is perfect._

“Do you want to find out today? If we can.” She asks against the rim of her mug.

“Is that what you want?” But his tone says, _more than anything._

“Yes. But we might have to wait, apparently the ultrasound techs aren’t really supposed to tell you…but I’ve been told it is kind of an unspoken thing between everyone that they normally will as long as they can tell.” Her voice is a mix of nervousness and excitement. 

“Okay.” He squeezes her tight.

They have the first appointment at the medical imagining clinic, so they are less likely to be seen by anyone.

The blue gel is cold on her stomach. Laying flat on her back—shirt hiked up to just below her breasts and her leggings low on her hips with a crinkly white paper tucked in them to save them from the goo—her small bump almost completely disappears.

Scott sits on one side of the table, near her head, on a swivel stool. The ultrasound tech, a girl in her mid twenties, is on the other side in front of the screen that will shortly display images of their baby.

His whole body hums in anticipation next to her. She knows getting to see their baby helps him connect, makes everything more real.

The room is dark, the only light coming from under a cupboard above the small sink and the computer type screen in front of the tech.

For the first ten or fifteen minutes the girl is entirely focused on the measurements and images the doctor will need—making sure everything is healthy and in proportion. Scott draws circles with his thumb in the palm of her hand while they both watch as the ultrasound wand glides across her belly.

The wand rests for while in one spot, low on her belly, and the tech furrows her brow in concentration. Tessa starts to tense, _is something wrong?_

Sensing her nervousness, he squeezes her hand and places a kiss on her temple. _Everything is fine, love._

As if picking up on their silent communication the tech turns to them, “I was just getting the last set of images for the doctor, but your little one was being a bit stubborn.”

Scott laughs and smooths Tessa’s hair, “Sounds about right, eh T?”

She smiles, _of course our kid would be stubborn._

“Do you want to see your baby now? They are actually in the perfect position for me to tell you gender, if you’d like.”

“Yes please.” They say in perfect synch.

The tech turns the screen towards them, and right there in grainy black and white is the profile of a perfect little baby. They can see the little baby button nose and the sharp jut of a chin, a hand with five perfect fingers passes by their baby’s face as if waving at them.

Tessa looks over at Scott, and watches as tears gather in the corner of his eyes, glimmering in the light of the monitor. He kisses her nose and squeezes her hand. _We made that. Our perfect baby._

The tech moves the wand to the side of her stomach and pushes down lightly until they can see between the baby’s legs.

“And here it is guys, the gender of your baby.”

“I don’t see anything.” Scott says, squinting at the screen.

Tessa nods, “Does the absence of anything…too umm see…I mean…you know…does that mean it’s a girl?”

“It can yes,” the tech laughs. “But sometimes not. But it is pretty clear here,” she points to a spot on the screen, “these three lines here indicate girl. So yes in this case the absence of…something else…does mean that you are having a girl. Congratulations guys.” She smiles, and looks at them, staring at each other. “I will go print a profile and the gender shot for you guys, I will give you the room.” She hands Tessa a towel for her stomach and leaves the two.

“A girl.” He is beaming at her,  _I am so fucking happy right now._

“I knew it.” She whispers, bringing their joined hands to her lips to kiss the back of his.

“I told you, you’re always right.” He kisses her on the lips and taking the towel begins to gently wipe the gel off her stomach.

“I love you already, baby girl.” He says on his last pass with the towel, leaning so low and close to her skin that she can feel his breath on her.

She feels a flutter, more pronounced then any she has felt so far. Her hand immediately jumps to her little bump.

“She loves you too.”  _Just like her mama._


End file.
